CHAPTER XVI

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_ENGLISH SCHOOL-DAYS._

I DID not expect an answer to my letter for six weeks at the very least; but when eight, ten, twelve, passed, and nothing came, I began to feel very home-sick and uneasy, and Mrs. Angelica said it worried her to have the child always looking out for the postman and asking, "Is there no letter for me?"

"And really, Olivia, when we have done so much for you, and my brother is so liberal, and all, I think you might be contented and grateful, and not want to go back to that dreadful America, where there are bears and wolves, and where all the people are rebels."

"Nonsense, Sister Angelica!" Mrs. Deborah would say. "It is only natural the child should wish to hear from her parents."

"Oh, I dare say you are right, Sister Deborah; but, after all, my brother 'has' been very liberal, and there 'are' bears in America, for Olivia's brother killed one—she told us so herself if you remember; and really, I do think she might be contented."

Mr. Wyndham came down and spent the Christmas holidays with us, bringing all sorts of beautiful presents for his sisters and myself; and forgetting nobody, from Mrs. Austin down to the old man who drove up the cows. Mrs. Austin provided a plum-pudding and a piece of beef for every one of the cottagers, and the duke sent down a sum of money to be divided among them, and new cloaks and gowns to all the old women. It was very kind in him to remember them all, and they were very grateful, but I could not help thinking that it would have been kinder if he had come down himself to look after things and build some decent places for the cottagers to live in. As it was, in several of the cottages a family of a dozen, great and small, would be crowded into two rooms, neither of them fit for a human being to sleep in. But when I hinted as much, Mrs. Austin was dreadfully scandalized, and told me I must never say such things, for it was just such notions which made the French rise and murder so many people. After that I kept my ideas to myself, but, like the parrot in the story, I thought the more.

The church was trimmed with evergreens, ivy, and holly, and looked beautifully, but it was dreadfully cold and damp even in our pew, which had a fire-place all to itself; and I used to pity the old cottagers and the men and women from the alms-houses, who had to sit on the hard benches with their poor rheumatic feet on the stone floor, which was always damp. Nobody had fires in churches then, but ours at home, cold as they were, were not so utterly uncomfortable as this very picturesque and ancient little building, where the air was all the time tainted with exhalations from the vaults below. These vaults were the burial-place of the ducal family and another noble family in the neighbourhood.

We had a Christmas service and sermon, and all the family from the rectory came to dinner, except Miss Talbot. She had been summoned home in haste to see her mother, who was very ill, and, to my great regret, I heard that the poor lady was dead and Miss Talbot was not coming back. I was very sorry for her as I thought how sad she must be, and I felt that for aught I knew my own dear mother might be dead also, so that I could not help crying.

Mrs. Deborah saw the traces of my tears, and called me to herself as she lay on the sofa.

"I see what you are thinking about, child, and it is only natural." (This was Mrs. Deborah's standing excuse for every one.) "I don't blame you for thinking of home and friends, but, Olivia, try to put yourself out of your mind for to-day. You have guests to entertain, and you owe it to them and to yourself not to over-cloud and spoil their holiday by selfishly giving way to your own feelings. I know your mamma would say the same, for from what you have told me, and from what I have seen of your bringing-up, I am sure she must be an excellent, sensible lady."

Mrs. Deborah had touched the right string, as, indeed, she usually did. I was grateful for her praise of my mother, and for her reference to her as a "lady," for Mrs. Deborah did not use that word promiscuously. With her it meant a great deal. So I went and bathed away all traces of my tears, and devoted myself, as Mrs. Deborah had advised, to the entertainment of my guests.

We all sat around the fire in the twilight before dinner, telling Christmas stories, and I contributed my share, with some tales of Indians and wolves which I had heard from my father and Rose. We had a grand dinner, at which I first saw a plum-pudding served in burning brandy, and famous games of blind-man's buff; hunt the slipper, and snap-dragon in the evening. This last is altogether an English game, I believe, and peculiar to Christmas. It is played by filling a large platter with raisins and pouring brandy over them. The brandy is then set on fire, and the players try to snatch the raisins from the flames, and most commonly end by burning both their fingers and their mouths; but nobody minds that.

Christmas trees had not yet been heard of out of Germany, but we children exchanged presents among ourselves,—thanks to Mr. Wyndham, I had plenty of pocket-money,—and when I went to bed after our friends left us, I was rather surprised to find that I had enjoyed the evening, after all. I am quite sure Mrs. Deborah was right in saying that the indulgence of grief is often as selfish as any other self-indulgence.

The next day Doctor Selden came over to dinner, and, to my great joy, he said I might resume my lessons in moderation. It turned out, however, that the Fullers were going to Plymouth to school, and after some consideration it was decided that I should go too. We were all to come home on Saturday and return to school Monday morning, and Mrs. Deborah was to take me out at once if I found my headaches returning.

The school was a fashionable one in the neighbourhood, and was called a very good one. It was kept by Mrs. Williams, a widow, in a handsome old house in one of the most retired and aristocratic streets of Plymouth. I cannot say that I think it was a good school. Mrs. Williams was a kind, well-meaning woman, but, she was a perfect Queen Log. She sat all day, nicely dressed, in the parlour, receiving calls and writing letters, and hardly ever came into the school-room at all. The real authority in the school rested with the French and English teachers, who were at swords' points, and who had their separate parties among the girls. If Miss Nicholas favoured a girl, Madame de Marin was sure to spite her, and no favourite with madame could have a good word with Miss Nicholas. Between the two authorities, there were naturally a good many places where an idle or mischievous girl could slip through restraint, and among the fourteen boarders there were several of each kind.

I had never learned French, but it was decided that I should make a beginning. I must say that it was no wonder I should side with madame, for she was very kind to me, and an excellent teacher of her own language. Moreover, she had a great admiration for America and Washington and the marquis La Fayette, whereas Miss Nicholas had offended me by sneering at "the Yankees" before I had been in her company twelve hours.

Madame was really a good soul in her way, but her party in the school was a very small one. When she found that I really enjoyed my French lessons and made great efforts to please her, she was very kind to me and bestowed much pains on me in return, so that I made famous progress. Mrs. Williams was always gracious when I came in her way, which was not often, but Miss Nicholas seemed to take a dislike to me from the first. She had made up her mind beforehand that I was a dunce, and I don't think she liked me any better for being, as I certainly was, though I say it myself one of the best scholars in school. The girls sometimes petted me and sometimes snubbed me, the snubbing rather predominating, but there was one of the older girls who for a while always took my part. Her name was Isabella Peckham, and she was the daughter of a baronet of very old family, and therefore a person of great consideration in the school. Isabella was a terrible dunce at her lessons, especially at her arithmetic. It seemed as if she could not understand the simplest rules, but, indeed, I don't think it was all her fault, for our writing-master, who also taught arithmetic, was anything but clear in his explanations even when he condescended to give any.

One day I found Isabella actually crying over a sum in compound division. (American children, by the way, don't know how much they have to be thankful for in being born to a decimal currency.)

"What is the matter?" I asked.

"It is this horrid sum," said she. (We did sums in those days, and not "examples.") "It comes out different every time, no matter how I try it."

"You don't do it right," said I. "Let me see it. I don't believe you understand the rule."

"Of course I don't; there's just the trouble. I can't make head or tail of anything that horrid old Mr. Emmons says."

"Well, he isn't very clear," I agreed; "but I guess I can explain it." And so I did; and when the answer at last came out right, Isabella was so grateful that she actually forgot to laugh at me for saying "guess."

"Well, now you understand the rule, you can go on and do the rest," said I when we had proved the sum.

"Oh dear! Olivia, if you will only do them for me this time! Just think! I cannot touch another thing or go out or anything till these are finished. Please, Olivia, do them for me this time."

I refused at first, saying that it would not be right, but Isabella coaxed and cried, and at last I consented. I did the sums, and Isabella copied them into her book and went away rejoicing. It was more than I did. I knew all the time that I was doing wrong; and when I saw the book presented to Mr. Emmons, and heard his commendation of it, my cheeks burned, and I almost thought I would speak right out. But then how could I betray Isabella, who was so kind to me? The next day she came with her slate again, and again I was silly enough to yield. So it went on for a week, I all the time acting against my conscience, and making myself miserable, unable to take any comfort in my prayers, and afraid of being found out.

On Saturday we went home, as I have said. Mrs. Deborah was a great deal better now, so that she was able to go out a little, but still she lay on the sofa a good deal. On Saturday, after dinner, she was thus resting. Mrs. Angelica was sleeping in her chair, as she usually did after dinner. I crept close to Mrs. Deborah's sofa and laid my head down by her pillow.

"What ails you, child?" asked Mrs. Deborah. "You are not like yourself at all. Has anything disagreeable happened to you in school?"

I took a sudden resolution, and told her all about it.

"And the worst of it is, I don't see how to leave off," I concluded. "Isabella will be sure to be in disgrace about her lessons, and then it will all come out."

"Suppose it does; what then?" asked Mrs. Deborah.

"Then we shall both be punished, and Isabella will think that I am a mean, selfish girl, and they will all say it is because I am a Yankee."

"Which do you think will be the worst, to be punished now or hereafter?" said Mrs. Deborah. "And besides, Olivia, I think you forget that there is One who has no need to find you out—who has seen your conduct all along. What do you think he thinks of it?"

I was silent, but I knew very well.

"I shall not give you any advice," continued Mrs. Deborah, after a pause; "advice is for people who don't know what to do, and that is not your case. Let me ask you one question, and then I should like to have you go to your room and think about it: what would your mother say?"

"But the girls will all turn against me, I know," said I. "Miss Peckham is Miss Nicholas's pet, and all the others do just as she says."

"Are you a coward, Olivia Corbet?" interrupted Mrs. Deborah, more sternly than she had ever spoken to me. "Because if you are, I have no more to say to you. There is nothing to be done with a coward."

"What are you and Olivia talking about so long?" asked Mrs. Angelica, rousing up. "Oh, I haven't been asleep, but—"

I went away to my own room without waiting for the conclusion of the sentence.

Mrs. Austin had caused a bright fire to be made in the grate—an unusual indulgence—and nothing could be pleasanter than the snug little apartment lighted up by the blazing coal. I sat down on the rug in front of the grate and put my head down on my knees. I don't think I ever felt more miserable in my life. What would mother say? I knew very well, There was nothing she hated like a lie, and here for a whole week I had been lying every day, for I was altogether too well instructed not to know that there was no difference between telling a lie outright and acting one.

I remembered how I had refused to help Elmina in the same way, and I began to consider my motives for not refusing to help Isabella. It was true. I had been a coward—afraid to refuse to do a mean thing for fear of the consequences to myself. Never in all my life had I been so utterly degraded in my own eyes. I crept to bed feeling as if there was no hope for me—as if I never could hold up my head again.

Mrs. Austin roused me betimes in the morning, for it was necessary to breakfast early in order that I might go back to school in due season. When I was dressed, I opened my shutters and looked out. It was not yet sunrise, but it was light. As I stood looking out I remembered the first morning that I stood by that window. I remembered my resolutions and prayers, and how good my heavenly Father had been to me in comforting me in my trouble and giving me such kind friends to care for me. And this was the return I had made.

Before I left my room I had humbly confessed my sin and asked forgiveness and help in the future, and made up my mind what I would do. We reached school rather late, the roads being very bad, and I had hardly put away my travelling things before Isabella came to me with her books and rather peremptorily requested me to "do her sums directly." Perhaps the tone she assumed helped me a little. At any rate I answered, promptly,—

"I will show you how to do the sums if I can, Isabella—"

"I don't want you to show me; I haven't time for that," interrupted Isabella. "I want you to do them, so that I can copy them this evening."

"But I can't do them for you," I continued, with more firmness; "it isn't right, and I am not going to do it any more."

"Nonsense!" said Isabella, colouring, however. "Why is it any more wrong now than it was last week?"

"It isn't any more wrong. It was very wrong then, and I ought not to have done it. It is just the same as telling a lie."

"Nonsense!" said Isabella, again. "You never said a word, so how can it be a lie?"

"It is a deception, and that is the same thing."

"But nobody will ever know it."

"God will know it," I answered, almost involuntarily; "and you know what he says about liars, Isabella."

"Oh, you are going to set up for a Methodist, are you?" said Isabella, in a taunting tone. "Methodist" was a great term of reproach in England in those days.

"I don't know what a Methodist is," I answered; "but if it means a person who doesn't want to tell lies, then it is a very good name, and I am not ashamed of it."

"But what am I to do?" said Isabella, condescending to argue, as she saw I was not to be frightened. "I shall not have my sums done, and I shall be in disgrace, and everybody will suspect something wrong. I dare say I might have had them ready if I had not depended on you, you cross little thing!"

"I am not cross, Isabella," I said, half crying. "I will help you just as much as you please, but I can't tell any more lies."

"Well, come along, then," said Isabella, sullenly enough.

We sat down to the sum, but Isabella could make nothing of it. She had missed the preliminary steps, and I dare say my explanations were not very clear; at any rate, after half an hour's application she pushed away the slate and book and declared she would not try any more.

"You are very unkind, Miss Corbet, and very disobliging, and I sha'n't forget it," said she.

"I am very sorry, Isabella—" I began; but she interrupted me:

"I don't care for your sorrow, and I don't choose to have you call me 'Isabella,' either—a little Yankee foundling that nobody knows anything about. I might have known just what to expect from a Yankee rebel."

My blood boiled at her tone and words, and I might have retorted on her as I did on Jack Fuller had I not remembered that I had been so much to blame myself. I had certainly a hard time of it that week. Isabella lost no opportunity of tormenting me by insulting allusions to my country and to all that she knew I valued most. The other girls, especially those of Miss Nicholas's special party, were not slow in following her example. I kept out of the way as much as I could, but that was not very much, for we had no private room, but slept in two dormitories, of which one was presided over by madame, the other by Miss Nicholas. I belonged of right in madame's room, but it was full, so I was placed in the other. I could not even say my prayers in peace; for though silence was enjoined in the bed-rooms, I was sure to hear a scornful whisper from some one of "See the little Yankee Methodist!"

I don't think Miss Nicholas troubled herself about the matter very much one way or the other. I knew there would be no use in complaining to her of Miss Peckham if I had been so disposed, which I was not. Emily Fuller did not know the cause of the quarrel between Isabella and me, but she stood up for me faithfully, and shared my disgrace in consequence. Julia was too careless to trouble herself about anything which did not touch her own personal comfort.

This lasted for more than a week, with no relaxation. I had looked forward to Saturday with a longing heart; but when the day came, a great snow-storm blocked up the roads and made travelling impossible.

That evening I was sitting alone in one of the school-rooms. There was no fire, and no light save what shone in from the other room, where the girls were assembled, but I preferred the cold and darkness to the unkind remarks was sure to meet if I tried to go near the fire. Presently, Isabella came in to look for something on the table. She did not speak to me; but turning over the things on the table very hastily, she found whatever she wanted, and went out again, knocking down something—a book, as I supposed. We were presently called to supper and prayers, and then sent to bed.

On Sunday morning somebody in the town sent for Isabella to spend the day and go to hear some famous preacher—I forget his name. The little school-room was not used on Sunday; but when it was opened on Monday morning, the square of carpet under the table was found soaked with ink from a large ink-stand which was overturned on the floor. Now, it was against the rule for any one to meddle with the writing-table at all.

"Who was in the little school-room last?" asked Miss Nicholas.

"Miss Corbet was sitting there all Saturday evening," said a girl who was always courting Isabella Peckham, and who was specially forward in persecuting me.

Miss Nicholas turned upon me at once:

"Miss Corbet, did you spill the ink?"

"No, ma'am," I answered; "I never went near the table."

"Then you must know who did," said Miss Nicholas, "for the ink was not spilled at seven, and at nine I locked the door myself. So you either meddled with the table yourself or you know who did. Who was it?"

"I would rather not tell, Miss Nicholas," was my answer.

"But you must tell, or I shall believe you the guilty one," said she, sharply.

I had, however, made up my mind, rightly or wrongly, that I would not tell of Isabella; for I knew she must have tipped over the ink at the time that I heard the fall. I only repeated that I did not wish to tell.

"Then you will stand in the stocks till you do, and have a double lesson to learn," was Miss Nicholas's sentence.

"The stocks" was a machine for making people turn out their toes, and was principally employed on our dancing-days. It was by no means comfortable even for the short time for which Mr. Lightfoot always used it, but after an hour or so the constrained position became absolute torture. I felt faint and sick, but by that time my temper was roused, and I was determined not to give way.

Isabella Peckham came home in the middle of the morning session. She looked surprised when she saw my position, and at the first chance she asked some one "what the little Yankee had been about to be put in the stocks."

"She spilt the ink all over the floor in the little school-room," was the answer.

Isabella started, and I saw that her face became scarlet.

"Does she own to tipping it over?" she asked.

"No, but she was there all the time, and she owns that she knows who did do it, but she won't tell, and Miss Nicholas says she shall stand in the stocks till she confesses."

Isabella was silent, but she looked at me in a way I hardly understood. When Miss Johnson left the room, she came up to me.

"Olivia," said she, in a whisper, "did you know that I spilt the ink?"

"I knew you were looking for something on the table, and I heard something fall," I replied.

"Then why didn't you tell of me?"

"You know well enough why I didn't," was my haughty answer. "I am no tell-tale, if I did—" And here I stopped.

"If you did cheat for me," said Isabella, finishing the sentence.

But at this moment the bell was rung, and the girls came in and took their seats.

When all was still, Miss Nicholas turned to me:

"Miss Corbet, will you confess, or will you stand in the stocks the rest of the day?"

Before I could answer Miss Peckham, greatly to my surprise, spoke up in a very clear, resolute voice:

"If you please, Miss Nicholas, Olivia has nothing to confess. It was I who meddled with the table, and I suppose spilled the ink, for I heard something fall. I thought it was a book, and I was in a hurry, so I did not stop to see. Olivia was not near the table at all."

It was now Miss Nicholas's turn to look confused, but she quickly recovered herself:

"Very well, Miss Peckham. As you have made a voluntary confession, I will not punish you. Miss Corbet can also be released if she will apologize for her insolence."

"I did not mean to be insolent," I said.

"Don't say you did not mean to," answered Miss Nicholas, sharply. "You know you were; and unless you make it humble apology, you shall stand where you are till dinner-time."

"I am sorry if I was," I answered.

"'If I was' won't answer, miss. That proud spirit of yours must be humbled once for all. Miss Peckham, where are you going?" as that young lady rose.

Miss Peckham deigned no answer, but left the room, and in about half an hour, during which time I thought I should faint more than once, she returned, to the amazement of every one, with Mrs. Williams herself. There was nobody we would not as soon have expected to see in the school-room except at prayers or with visitors; for as I have said, she was usually a regular Queen Log, but Isabella had found means to rouse her for once. She ordered my instant release in a voice that made every one start. Then, giving me her own smelling-bottle, she began to inquire into the circumstances. Miss Nicholas told her own story, and then Isabella told hers, adding, with tears, that she knew she had done very wrong and had been unkind and cruel to me, but she was not so mean as to want me to be punished for her fault.

Mrs. Williams was a lady of great dignity. She drew herself up, took a pinch of snuff from her gold-enamelled box—all ladies look snuff in those days—and then delivered her judgment:

"Miss Nicholas, you have been to blame. I have often told you that no young lady must stand in the stocks more than half an hour, and that I would have no punishing to extort confessions. It is often done, I am aware, but I consider the practice a cruel one, leading often to lying. Moreover, you should have accepted the apology Miss Corbet made. It was quite sufficient."

She paused a moment and took another pinch, while Miss Nicholas turned first white, then red. I think myself that Mrs. Williams was rather hard upon her in thus reproving her before all the school, but our governess was like many other easy-going people that I have known: when she once got started she did not know when to stop. Presently she continued:

"I am also informed by Miss Peckham that both she and the other young ladies have been in the habit of teasing and affronting Miss Corbet because she is an American, calling her a 'Yankee' and other opprobrious names. I am sorry and displeased that any such thing should have happened. Miss Corbet cannot help being born an American." (As if I would have helped it if I could!) "I consider that the ladies have been very much to blame in such conduct, and I cannot think it would have gone as far as I understand it has if you, Miss Nicholas, had done your duty. I expect that proper apologies shall be made to Miss Corbet, and that no such thing shall happen in future. Miss Corbet shall have a half holiday to make up for the unjust punishment she has suffered, and she may make choice of any young lady she pleases to be her companion and to drink tea with me this evening."

So saying, Mrs. Williams gathered up her black velvet and cashmere and swept out of the room, leaving a very surprised and ashamed company.

I think Miss Nicholas was sorry as well as ashamed when she saw that I could hardly bear my weight on my feet. I chose Emily for my companion, and we passed the afternoon very happily in the parlour, I lying on the sofa to rest my swelled and aching ankles, and Emily reading or talking to me.

Miss Peckham got permission to come in and see me, and she very earnestly begged my pardon, and brought me similar messages from the other girls.

I was very happy and could afford to be magnanimous, seeing I had got so very much the best of it; but I had also, I hope, a real desire to be forgiving and kind.

"Please don't say any more about it, Miss Peckham," said I. "If I hadn't done so very wrong at first, it would not have happened."

"That is no excuse for me," she answered; and then, after a little silence, "I don't suppose you will ever love me or call me 'Isabella' again."

"I'm sure you cannot wonder if she don't," said Emily, who was not disposed to forgive so easily.

"But I will both love you and call you 'Isabella,' and I will help you about your sums too," said I, "if only you won't laugh at the 'Yankees' any more. How would you like it, if you were in a strange place, to have every one making fun of your country?"

Isabella agreed that it would be very disagreeable and very mean, and there the matter ended.

Mrs. Williams, coming in at that moment and seeing Isabella, invited her also to tea. We were regaled with plum-cake and raspberry jam, and passed a very pleasant evening. When I was going up to bed, I lingered a moment, and thus had a chance to speak to Miss Nicholas, for I could not be content without trying to be friends with everybody.

"Please, Miss Nicholas, won't you kiss me good-night?" I half whispered, going close to her. "Indeed, I did not mean to be insolent to you, only I did not want to tell of Isabella; and besides, you know, I could not be quite sure that she did it."

Miss Nicholas seemed really moved. She kissed me quite affectionately, and told me she was sure I meant to be a good girl and perhaps she had been too severe with me. I was careful to treat her with great respect ever afterward, and we continued good friends as long as I stayed at school, which was not long.

I think the poor English teacher had a very hard time of it. She was over-burdened with work, a great deal of it such as no teacher ought to be troubled with. She attended to the girls' wardrobes and mended for the little ones, besides washing and dressing them, and she had a great deal of responsibility, with very little real authority. I really think Austin's place was very much the better of the two. Indeed, it is no exaggeration to say that my mother's spinning-girl, Lucy Cherryman, was less hardly worked and treated with more consideration than our English teacher at Mrs. Williams's.

With the girls I also got on very well. I think they liked me all the better for my spirit and felt ashamed of their persecution, which, as Mrs. Williams truly said, could not have gone so far if Miss Nicholas had done her duty. No doubt, too, I owed a good deal to Isabella's friendship and protection. Anyhow, we had no more quarrels, and I had a fair share of all amusements and privileges; and as I was always ready to help in any right way, whether in fun or in lessons, the "little Yankee" presently grew to be a great favourite.

But my school-days did not last much longer. Going home one Saturday in March. Mrs. Deborah told me that a friend was waiting for me up in my room. Running up in great wonder to see who it could be, I found a nice fire made, my candles lighted, and on the toilet-table a thick ship-letter directed in my father's hand-writing.

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